Circle Around the Sun: Book One of the Isis Project

By M.D. Johnson

In the aftermath of 9/11, lecturer Emily Cowan, called back into government service, revisits her past. Gathering intelligence as her own search for ethnic identity unfolds, Emily returns to the greatest game of all, as hidden in a desolate cave in the Afghan mountains is the reason the fight against terrorism must continue.

“Circle Around The Sun” marks the fictional debut of Emily Cowan, a charismatic and often highly deviant legend in the making. With biting wit, candor and firsthand knowledge of her subject, M. D. Johnson has created a spy thriller masterpiece with a brilliant cast of characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664169791

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by M. D. Johnson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/26/2021

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Contents

Preface

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Part Two

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Part Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Six

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety-One

Chapter Ninety-Two

Chapter Ninety-Three

Chapter Ninety-Four

Chapter Ninety-Five

Chapter Ninety-Six

Chapter Ninety-Seven

Chapter Ninety-Eight

Chapter Ninety-Nine

Chapter One Hundred

Chapter One Hundred One

Chapter One Hundred Two

Part Four

Chapter One Hundred Three

Chapter One Hundred Four

Chapter One Hundred Five

Chapter One Hundred Six

Chapter One Hundred Seven

Chapter One Hundred Eight

Chapter One Hundred Nine

Chapter One Hundred Ten

Chapter One Hundred Eleven

Chapter One Hundred Twelve

Chapter One Hundred Thirteen

Chapter One Hundred Fourteen

Chapter One Hundred Fifteen

Chapter One Hundred Sixteen

Chapter One Hundred Seventeen

Chapter One Hundred Eighteen

Chapter One Hundred Nineteen

Chapter One Hundred Twenty

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Two

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Three

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Six

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Seven

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Eight

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Nine

Chapter One Hundred Thirty

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-One

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Two

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Three

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Four

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Five

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Six

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Seven

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Eight

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Nine

Chapter One Hundred Forty

Chapter One Hundred Forty-One

Chapter One Hundred Forty-Two

Chapter One Hundred Forty-Three

Chapter One Hundred Forty-Four

Chapter One Hundred Forty-Five

Chapter One Hundred Forty-Six

Chapter One Hundred Forty-Seven

Chapter One Hundred Forty-Eight

Epilogue

Afterword

The ISIS Project Series is historical fiction. The first book Circle Around the Sun includes the real life characters of Ulrike Meinhof, Andreas Baader, Gudrun Ensslin, Leila Khaled, Fusako Shigenobu, and Osama bin Laden, all of whom are or were terrorists and as such will be judged by history. All dialogue in this work is purely fictional but has been based on the ideology and published quotes of the subjects themselves. The terrorist training camps mentioned did exist although the venues and descriptions have been changed. The incidents taking place in them occurred solely in the imagination of the author. The main characters in this work are fictional.

Acknowledgements

This book would not have been possible without the love, help and support of the following people who have my heartfelt thanks. My husband Pete and our family, daughter Adrienne, sons Ian, his wife Amanda, Robert, Eric and Bryan along with other family members Peter James Dease, Lynne Dease, Pam, Neil and Sophie Dease, Carle and Carol Johnson as well as close friends Suzette, Devon, Seth and Rosemary D’Atri, Lora Holstege,The Leinbach family, Deb Banker, Jen Shuvani, Angela Henry, Diotima Mantinea, Terry Moritz, Renee Swafford, Jay Kelly, Neil Franklin and my son-in-law Wil Raga. Special thanks to Pauline Jellicoe, Eeva Varner and Pop Johnson for their recall of the Heidelberg experience, David and Peggy Sheppard for their editorial expertise, along with Ashley and the gang at TNT for always keeping me sane.

The following people are some who served as inspiration; literary genius John Le Carré, Afghan civil rights activist and dear friend Fahima Vorgetts, another warrior woman, as well as Tyrone Powers, Ph.D. whose remarkable Terrorism and Counter-terrorism lecture series enabled me to revisit the greatest game of all.

In the four years spent researching this project I found it easier to recall certain events as well as gain the peace of mind that only comes through listening to good music. I am particularly indebted to Folksinger Peter Mayer, whose beautiful song One More Circle not only provided me with a fitting title but whose works never ceased to bring me peace of mind. Additional inspiration came from the works of Jim Steinman, Peter Gabriel, Trinitas, Anonymous 4, Richard Thompson, the late Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, War, Osibisa, The Searchers, Rod Argent, and the magical Colin Blunstone. Every attempt has been made to contact those performers whose work has been mentioned.

My gratitude to Cindi Hackett of the Anne Arundel County Public Library System for going above and beyond the call of duty in 1999 when the project first began. The amount of public information available on the subject was enormous but the sources and reference notes were from my paper and lecture al-Qaeda and its leader, Osama bin Laden: The Man in the Shadow which has served as a major reference throughout this book. For future reader reference the sources are acknowledged when cited. I am indebted to Alexander B. Callahan’s paper entitled Countering Terrorism. The Israeli Response to the 1972 Munich Olympic Massacre and the Development of Covert Action Teams, which gave me another perspective on the event.

The ISIS Project is dedicated to the memory of my parents, Peter and Mona Dease of Liverpool, England, who believed without question in freedom of speech, and to our grandchildren Adam, Zach, Jay, Aliah, Cameron, Luke, Lamar, Jordyn and Bryce, who are our future. For them, we must ensure we never lose the rights we hold so sacred.

PREFACE

In December 2000 I presented a paper called Al-Qaeda and its Leader Osama bin Laden, The Man in the Shadow, to an audience of young law enforcement professionals. It was well received, but international terrorism, while interesting was far from central in the imaginations of criminal justice students in December 2000. On September 13th, 2001 as a guest speaker, I once more lectured on al-Qaeda, Women in Terrorism and re-presented the bin Laden paper. My audience was again young law enforcement professionals, but this time they were in a state of shock! Life after September 11th 2001 was changed for all of us.

It has been my intent throughout Circle Around the Sun to look objectively at all sides of the terrorist equation by blending fact and fantasy. In the late sixties and seventies I lived and worked in an environment conducive to revolution, which sadly evolved into acts of terrorism. I offer no excuse for the actions of terrorists, but I would be remiss if I did not attempt to understand many of the reasons behind their actions. History is written, as is so oft quoted, by the victors.

M. D. Johnson

Maryland, 2005

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Monday September 10th, 2001

James Weldon Jackson, PhD, a tall, light complexioned black man stood slowly and gripped the highly polished walnut table as he began to speak. He faced his audience from the stage of the Chesapeake College Criminal Justice Department’s auditorium and winked slyly at the well dressed middle-aged woman on his right. Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen, he announced in his Baltimore baritone, Our speaker this evening is Emily Byron Cowan, Director and founder of ISIS, an investigative research company based here in Annapolis. Her lecture will focus on Osama bin Laden, his organization ‘al-Qaeda’ and its long-term effects on Afghanistan and the United States. Please remember to submit your paper on this lecture by Monday for extra credit. Pay close attention to Professor Cowan, as there will be questions on this lecture in your mid-term examination.

Thank you, Dr. Jackson, his guest said, bowing her head in an unofficial salute. Emily, a short, self described warrior woman responded warmly to the introduction. Smiling down on her colleagues in the front row and relying on recollections from her past, she took a deep breath and addressed her audience of young law enforcement professionals and pre-law students.

As students of both Terrorism and Counter-terrorism, she began, It is vital that you understand what makes a terrorist and the unbridled chaos that is their world. As you have already learned there is no clear definition of terrorism. The boundaries between terrorist and freedom-fighter, good guys and bad guys are porous, but for convenience we’ll use the FBI construct, that terrorism is the unlawful use of force or violence against person or property to intimidate or coerce a government, the civilian population, or any segment thereof, in furtherance of political or social objectives. She continued wryly, As you will note, while this is our definition, we occasionally lapse into amnesia ourselves when we ourselves sponsor terrorism some place else. At that Dr. Jackson cringed, shook his head, and muttered, Oh shit, under his breath.

In order to counteract terrorism, you have to live inside the mind and body of the opponent, recognize their ideal, be one step ahead, or, she paused for effect, they will win. Continuing in her nasal yet refined northern English accent, It would be foolish not to acknowledge the role of Sheikh bin Laden as a key figure in the political theater. This course is designed to familiarize you with the reasons behind al-Qaeda, why it was formed and how it supports the Taliban in Afghanistan. Most of all, I ask that you consider the term ‘blowback’ and remember that we most certainly did create this monster. But perhaps more importantly, over the next two weeks I want to also give you some insight into bin Laden the person, whom I have often referred to as ‘The Man in the Shadow’. She continued to explain that her book, The Man In The Shadow paid special attention to the legends and folklore still circulating throughout the Afghani and Pakistani border villages concerning the tall, quiet man the people called a savior. He is considered by both militant and moderate Muslims to be the only man to stand up to what they describe as our ‘super power arrogance’.

Emily Byron Cowan was a short round woman in her fifties, expensively dressed in the black Chanel business suit she had chosen especially to detract attention from her solid five foot two inch frame. Being well-dressed was always half of the battle of acceptance, she believed.

She walked over to the television and inserted a video tape, one of her own. The pirated tape, which she quickly translated from Arabic, showed bin Laden being interviewed by the Al-Jazeera Satellite Channel in Qatar. It had been filmed sometime in June 1999.

It was classic terrorist theater, with all the right visual effects, showing Osama bin Laden seated on a straw mat wearing his usual camouflage jacket, with the AK-47 which he allegedly took from a Russian officer in hand to hand combat ever present at his side.

Looking calm and collected, he stared into the camera with a hypnotic glare which could appear almost sincere were it not so lethal. He spoke using the flowing and somewhat poetic upper-class Arabic befitting a man of wealth and stature. Osama bin Laden touted the draft of what would later become his best selling book, America and The Third World War, and spewed forth a tirade of hate.

I am not afraid of death, the thin faced bearded man continued; I came here to die. Some of my supporters followed me here just to die for the cause of Islam. They are ready to defend me and to kill anyone who thinks of attacking our positions. Cowan’s students sat riveted to their chairs, listening to her translate the words of the one described by his followers as ‘The Prophet’.

Quickly changing videos so as not to lose their attention, she translated another interview with bin Laden by Rahimullah Ysefzai in January of 1998. The International Islamic Front for Jihad against the USA and Israel has, by the grace of God, issued a crystal-clear fatwa. She paused the video while she explained that this fatwa was a decree calling on a United Islamic Nation to carry out a jihad or holy war aimed at liberating all holy sites throughout the Middle East.

Looking around the room, she focused on a young blond man who was rapidly taking notes. This, ladies and gentlemen, is his long-term goal and he believes the nation of Mohammed has responded to this appeal. Bin Laden feels, and not unjustly, that those who love God, his prophet and their religion will not deny that any thief, criminal or robber entering another country in order to steal, that is to say in this case, us, the good old USA, should expect to be exposed to murder. Not a new concept, I might add, but one which was also espoused by Euro-terrorists in the sixties and seventies. Bin Laden has stated that, Americans should expect a reaction from the Muslim world that is appropriate to the injustice they inflict." Consider this quote from Mark Juergensmeyer’s book, ‘Terror in the Mind of God’. There is no need to contend with society’s laws and limitations when one is obeying a higher authority.

God, she continued, is always first in the minds of the faithful, and I for one hope that this time, God in all known forms will protect us from some of his more fundamentalist followers…on all sides!

Glancing at her watch, she concluded, We have time for a few questions.

The blond, muscular young man in a Police Academy t-shirt stopped writing. He sported the new cop buzz haircut and was seated along with some of the faculty in the front row. He raised his hand; Professor Cowan, there isn’t much media information on bin Laden available. You sound like a lot of yours comes firsthand.

She smiled slyly, Suffice it to say that it’s my job to pay attention to detail. The intelligence is out there. National security, in my humble opinion, just chooses to ignore it. Bin Laden, she continued, has been largely ignored by our intelligence. My understanding is that while there is indeed a price on his head, he’ll be around for a long time. There is no doubt that he is wearing out his welcome in Afghanistan, but as I said earlier, this man is a supreme strategist, his marriages have been within old established tribes from Chechnya to Syria, they are obligated to protect him. His Taliban tie is also strengthened by marriage and family commitment. Bin Laden’s daughter is married to Mullah Mohammed Omar, the key player of the Taliban and bin Laden himself has taken Omar’s daughter as a wife. Any betrayal at this level would result in immediate death. It would be the ultimate insult. It’s a family affair…it always is.

Sadly, we are reluctant to understand Islamic Jihad mentality and to the rebels, bin Laden is a hero. He will never be betrayed by his inner circle. They have sworn fealty to him. Betrayal is not even a remote consideration. However, in Afghanistan there is a need for international acceptance, not to mention the building of the UNOCAL pipeline which is backed by a wealthy international consortium. When this project is completed that impoverished little country will be propelled from the dark ages to prosperity and massive economic growth. As long as the Taliban, backed by al-Qaeda, subjects the Afghan women to gendercide, they will never be acknowledged by the UN. Women of the west will unite on this issue, because the abuse of women in Afghanistan is sending all the wrong signals to women here, and we will let this message be known. Women in the west are that strong! The message will get to the politicians and that will go back to the United Nations. That UN seat is not a bargaining chip. We can and must block the Taliban, and in turn stymie their little helpers, al-Qaeda.

I believe, she stated emphatically, That the only choice left to bin Laden, who has provided training camps, hospitals and roads to this country using his enormous wealth, is to leave Afghanistan voluntarily. Or, he should at least appear to leave as we mount pressure on the Taliban. That way, everybody has a back door and such is the political thrust of the U.S. We advise them adamantly to clean up their act by restoring the rights of women. In return they get the UNOCAL pipeline and we get a piece of the action before the Russians, our old established enemy does.

Emily continued, deliberately lowering her voice as she stared at the faces of the students before her At this point the Taliban can effectively say hello to the UN. Unless there is some sort of major catastrophe or act of war where he can win over all Muslims and call upon militants to join him waging war against the West, I’m inclined to think that he will orchestrate an attack against a major US landmark, something of national importance or one where he could get a lot of media attention for al-Qaeda. Don’t forget he is an educated professional with a family background in one of the largest construction engineering companies in the world. He likes to design as well as destroy. His method in the past has always been to hit and run with no fancy application. He always leaves a calling card. The message is always, ‘Nothing is safe from me – You cannot hide!’ That’s his power. It’s the Dark Lord come to life, except this is not Harry Potter.

The place to watch first is Afghanistan, she went on, then Iraq, followed by Iran. If they unite for any purpose, the long term effects for us could be catastrophic. There has already been a meeting between bin Laden and Saddam Hussein, where he received a goodwill gift of several hundred Yemeni passports, many of them diplomatic. We’ll go into that at the next lecture.

Professor Cowan, a young woman asked, You didn’t answer the question. Have you ever met him?

Emily paused before responding. Ever heard of the term ‘plausible deniability’? she asked laughingly. One more question and we’ll call it a night.

Paying careful attention to the expressions around the room, she was satisfied by the end of the lecture that she had done well. Packing up her briefcase with the mounds of lecture notes and left over handouts, she closed the door and headed towards the office of James Weldon Jackson. Hey there, he said as she entered his book lined office, You did good, girl. That ol’ fire of revolution has been lit.

Yeah, yeah. Right on. Power to the people and all the stuff you’re too young to remember, Weldon, Emily answered with a grin. How come you invited me to do this series of lectures anyway?

To tell you the truth Em, the college just won a real big award which puts us ahead of the criminal justice funding game. I want the Terrorism-Counter-terrorism program to be a Criminal Justice class, but Sociology and Psychology both feel it comes under their jurisdiction as well. This cuts our kids out as they tend to register late and find the class is full. As I see it, if I make it more attractive, more espionage or current affairs oriented, a greater number of law enforcement wannabes will register, confidence in the program will rise and our funding pockets will fatten. You’re a known commodity. They’re used to you after your lectures last year. They associate you with the forensics class and your Women in Crime" guest lectures.

Glad to hear it, she replied, Now when are you going to get the funds to start paying me?

Emily thanks for the things you do for us and I truly wish we could pay you, but you know it’s not in the budget.

I’m joking. I know all about number crunching. This is a great place to learn. Your students deserve the best, the standards are high and I’m glad to help out. It’s good for my book sales as well. But what concerns me is that all this stuff is so new to them. What the hell do these kids know about world politics or the Middle East? Have they any idea what we’re up against here? I try to explain at every lecture that in other parts of the world, seeing soldiers with machine guns riding around in jeeps is not unusual. In the part of the world where these people are from, bad guys still ride horses and carry rifles.

You know Weldon, Emily continued, Two years ago I was on the phone to my niece at the Home Office in London when a telephone booth blew up right in front of her office building. The IRA had struck again. It’s normal over there. Look at Palestine, for Christ’s sake. Every day children die and we support their execution one way or another. Is it any wonder that the Middle East is full of angry Islamists. And before you get started, I have as many Jewish friends as Arab ones. The entire world has gone mad!

That’s why we’re here…to educate, Jackson responded, asserting himself to his full height, Maybe through our efforts we can redefine the boundaries. What was it Malcolm once said? ‘If you’re not part of the solution you’re part of the problem.’ But I gotta admit, last semester your lecture on Angela Davis even got me goin’. You know, we’re trying to get her down here.

You know, Weldon, she just might come. Keep trying. As I told the class last year, she came to Europe thirty years ago, as did Kathleen Cleaver, to address the students and the system wouldn’t let them speak! As I remember; they couldn’t get through immigration or customs in Germany and had to actually land in Paris. Didn’t phase us though, the Student Union picked them up there and smuggled them over the border. That ban on their speechmaking was the worst thing the authorities could have done. We went crazy. Students all over Europe took up the anti-Viet Nam war position, backed civil rights leaders and then left it to the rock stars to romanticize all our hard work. She began singing, We can change the world, it’s dying and if you believe in justice… Good old Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, she thought to herself.

A brief knock, the door opened, and Dana Johnson, an international legal expert and Annapolis attorney entered the room. A striking African American woman, she wore traditional Ghanaian dress, the dramatic colors of which highlighted her ebony skin, African features and closely cropped natural hair. Johnson was responsible for programs involving forensic investigation. An international lawyer who frequently consulted to the government, she was a fine teacher and an ardent supporter of the college. Rumor had it that her relationship with Jackson was something more than cordial or professional. Her dark eyes flashed anxiously toward Emily. Hey lady! I didn’t know you were still here. We’re going to Fratelli’s. Want to join us for Soul Food, Italian style?

Absolutely, but let me call home first.

Checking up on that fine looking man of yours?

Dana, after all these years, I don’t have to, but I do want them to know where I am. Besides that, Harrison’s away and Mason is due home tonight.

Mason is due home? After all the trouble I took to fake an emergency just to see that boy. Tell him to come as well!

After making arrangements to meet the pair at the small Italian restaurant, which they assured her stayed open for late night students, Emily finally left the darkened building.

Heading toward the parking lot where her vintage Spitfire was parked, she was aware of being followed. Hold up, Professor, I’ll walk you to your car. It was the young man with the buzz haircut from her class. I’m Tedeuz Michalak, he said with a grin.

Do I detect a slight accent, Mr. Michalak?

Yes. I’m Polish, he replied

In a police academy t-shirt? she asked.

I’m waiting on citizenship, he said proudly. I’m getting some courses over with now. I’ve wanted to be cop since we got here. It’s like, you know, my way of giving back, so I volunteer there. Dr. Jackson has been a real help with the paperwork and recommendations. Choosing his words carefully, as one who spoke English as a second language, he smiled. In fact, I’m on my way to meet him and a few others for pizza.

Yes, me too.

Great, he replied. Where are you parked?

They walked across the parking lot and waved as two college security officers drove past. She got into her car and rolled down the window to let in some fresh air. Damn, Anne Arundel County is worse than Washington in the fall, it’s so hot and humid, she moaned.

It’s still better than communist Poland. Before I forget Professor, I won’t be at the Tuesday night class. I’m going to New York to see my sister. She’s an investment banker at the World Trade Center. I won’t get back until Wednesday, but I’ll be there Thursday for the last session, and with that, he turned towards his car in the next lot.

Thanks for staying awake. I know I went on a little long, she called after him. See you at Fratelli’s.

She slipped a Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan CD into the player her son bought her earlier in the year and listened as the devotional Sufi music known as Qawwali filled the car. ‘Mustt Mustt’, which translated to ‘Lost in his work’ was a song was about a Sufi saint. She swayed rhythmically as she drove down Route 2, making a right into the shopping center before the narrow road leading to the waterfront community she called home. She was mentally miles away from the Chesapeake Bay driving by instinct alone. The car drove itself, she often said, and she was now beginning to believe it was true.

Her car may have been on St. Andrew’s Road heading toward the community’s Italian Restaurant, but she was mentally somewhere long ago in another hot and humid climate. In that country the night turned suddenly cold enough to make your teeth chatter. Unprotected, sandstorms could ravage your body, stick to your skin and burn your eyes out. Emily was suddenly transported to a place where her head throbbed from being screamed at, and her ears popped in retaliation to the sound of gunshots while her fingers, wrists and elbows hurt from the pressure of firing her weapon. Where are you now, Ghulam Ansari? Afghanistan, Saudi, or Chechnya, Mr. God almighty revolutionary? Do you ever wonder what became of your son? she thought aloud.

CHAPTER TWO

The others had already ordered pizza and were sitting at a long table in the smaller of the restaurant’s two dining rooms. Unlike the room next door, this one had no bar or television. Instead it had a glass wall that looked onto the Magothy River over a dock and a pier. The view at night was spectacular and this was a night full of stars. She had learned long ago to read the stars for direction and as she left her car to enter ‘Amerigo Fratelli’s’, she found herself instinctively looking upward to get her bearings.

Inside the cozy Italian restaurant, she found her colleagues waiting with several vegetable pizzas, platters of antipasto and cold drinks. Feeling nostalgic, she ordered Chianti.

So now you can answer my question, Professor Cowan, began Ted Michalak. "How come you focus more on bin Laden than anyone else? I mean, you never hear about the guy that much in the media. Even after the bombing of the USS Cole last year, no one claimed the attack but everyone hinted that it was Osama bin Laden who masterminded it. Why can’t anyone find him?’

Tedeuz, if I may call you by your first name, Emily answered politely, Osama bin Laden is somewhat of an enigma. Wouldn’t you say so, Dr. Jackson? He nodded his agreement. In the next few weeks, she went on, I will break down the myth into a more human form. You will know as much if not more about bin Laden than the entire intelligence community. As for his whereabouts, Afghanistan is virtually all mountains and caves. Its villages are feudal, they are friendly territory for him and he can easily hide for years. For the people there, he’s a legend and an escape artist and that’s what he feeds on. But you see, for me bin Laden is not a mythic figure. I know him inside and out. I’ve studied the man for twenty years, and while he wouldn’t know me now, we have in fact met. He was a perhaps angry, much troubled, and somewhat sad young man even then. I have heard his views on the world. Some say he had a spiritual vision and became truly committed to Islam when the Russians invaded Afghanistan in the late seventies. He was, at that point, a contemporary of my former missing, hopefully late husband in some ways. As I understand it, she said with a sigh, they may have later become friends. Perhaps that’s why the son-of-a-bitch dropped off the face of the earth about two decades ago.

The table consisting of four students from her lecture, Dr. Jackson and his muse, the attractive and generally talkative Professor Dana Johnson fell into stunned silence.

CHAPTER THREE

Tuesday, September 11th, 2001. 8.00 a.m.

Morning, Mother, Mason Desai, M.D. patted Emily’s shoulder and began to spoon finely ground Arabic coffee into a small blue enamel coffee pot. He poured in water, held the pot over the burner, spooned in sugar and added two cardamom pods. As the water slowly came to a boil he took the pot by its long handle and gently swished the coffee around. Placing it back on the burner, then swishing it two more times, he finally declared it perfect and poured the thick aromatic mixture into two demitasse cups, exactly measuring the contents of each. Where’s Harrison? he asked as he handed her one of the tiny cups. I thought he was off today.

Harrison Evil, as you inappropriately call your stepfather, met with a client late last night and was going to leave the hotel early this morning to avoid the last of the beach crowd returning over the bridge. He should be here anytime, she replied, holding the fragile demitasse with one hand as she ruffled the hair of the first-born child she loved so dearly.

Well I’m off for two days. I’ve only grabbed about ten hours shut-eye since Sunday. The walking wounded can do without me for a day or two. He picked up his cup and headed from the kitchen into the small office at the other end of the ancient beach house his mother and stepfather owned at the mouth of the Little Magothy River.

Mason Desai was just thirty-one years old, slightly over six feet tall, slim but of muscular proportion. A full head of black hair curling rebelliously around his shirt collar gave him the look of an ancient Greek statue. His ancestry was, however, not Greek but Afghani and Anglo-Arab, and the plurality of his heritage was plain in his olive skin, prominent nose, dark brows and sensual mouth, offset by sad dark eyes which flashed from hazel to brown depending on his level of concentration.

Mason was ending his first year of residency in the Emergency Medicine department of the Annapolis City Hospital. His own small apartment was in Annapolis proper. However, on his days off he usually returned to his parent’s home in Cape St. Andrew, where he could unwind and forget the emergency room by taking out his boat and heading toward the Chesapeake Bay.

The handsome young man had inherited his love of the sea as well as his nearly English accent and speech patterns from his mother, the former Emily Byron Desai. The only child of a wealthy Middle Eastern father and an English mother, Emily was the product of English private schools and she had provided no less for her two children. Mason, who was named Masud at birth and Hallah, his younger sister now known as Haley spent their formulative years between three homes. The first in historic Chester, a city complete with its surviving Roman wall and winding roads built by the marauding conquerors and the second in Heidelberg, but it was this house in Cape St. Andrew facing Maryland’s Little Magothy River where it joined the Chesapeake Bay that they, along with Emily’s second husband Harrison Cowan felt completely safe and relaxed.

Cowan, an expert on computers and bio-security was in great demand. A Scots ex-patriot who had lived in the United States for several decades, he inherited the waterfront property from his uncle who married into an old Annapolis family just after World War II. The large, comfortable beach house set well back on the banks of the river was conveniently close to colonial Annapolis and its U.S. Naval Academy as well as being less than an hour from both Washington D.C. and Baltimore. It was their piece of heaven, well hidden from prying eyes, spacious yet informal. Here they could walk along the beach, watch the sunset and forget world affairs. It was also a place where dignitaries, presidents, prime ministers, and members of various and sundry intelligence services regularly dropped by for a brief word with the couple, knowing fully well that their secrets were safe.

So how did the lecture go last night? Mason shouted from their home office back into the kitchen where Emily had commandeered the large antique walnut table for her reports on al-Qaeda and textbooks on terrorism.

Funny you should ask. Someone asked me if I knew bin Laden personally.

No shit? What did you say? putting his long slim feet on his step-father’s mahogany desk.

Have you lost your mind, Mason? Get your bloody feet off that desk! his mother shouted, entering the office and shoving his feet off of the desk. I just told the truth. I met bin Laden in a bar in Beirut in the early seventies with an undercover agent! How should I have answered him, I wonder?

Sorry I asked. You’re certainly uptight this morning.

Mason, this is a very sensitive issue for me. I am convinced that Osama bin Laden, charismatic leader or otherwise is going to push us all into World War III, and frankly no one gives a shit. Every intelligence person I have talked to, British and American gives me the same enigmatic smile and deftly gets off the subject. They’re all ignoring his existence. I just don’t understand it. In my opinion he’s public enemy number one. Everything I’ve researched for the past twenty years points to disaster. This man is a time bomb waiting to go off. She turned back toward the kitchen.

Fair assessment Mother, but you’re a civilian. Get used to it. That’s the Boy’s Club at work for you.

Mason turned on the tiny television in Emily’s office. It was 8.49 a.m. He changed channels and found himself looking at flames shooting out of New York City’s World Trade Center. Bryant Gumble, appearing stunned, was chattering somewhat senselessly.

Mason yelled for his mother to come back to her office. The network replayed the shot of the Twin Towers, this time a small black object could be seen hitting the building. It was a jetliner! Four or five floors, three-quarters of the way up were in flames. Within minutes a second plane struck People were jumping out of the windows. Emily, astonished, turned to her son. We’re under attack! This is al-Qaeda! Call your sister! Emma yelled at her son as she rang her husband’s office.

Where is she? he asked, dialing Haley’s cell phone from his.

At a conference in the Pentagon, his mother replied, with dread creeping into her heart.

CHAPTER FOUR

Hallah Desai, now known as Haley Agar was twenty-nine years old and celebrating her recent divorce. A federal government lawyer working for the National Transportation Safety Board, on this day, September 11th, 2001 she was on assignment to the Pentagon in order to attend a conference at the Navy Command Center. The conference was scheduled to begin at 10.30 a.m. Haley Agar had decided to arrive early, unafraid of calories and with a longing for chicken fried steak and hash browns, she planned to eat a hearty breakfast and later head to the conference room. Her family would later claim that her voracious appetite saved her life.

At precisely 9.37 a.m. Haley’s cell phone rang. It was her brother, her best friend and protector. He rapidly explained what he had seen. Tell the old girl I’m OK. I don’t know what the fuck is happening, she said with a note of alarm, looking at the people running past her, but this place is going crazy as well. I’ll try and get back to you later. Pushing her cell phone back into the side of her briefcase, Haley, thanking her common sense for wearing flat heeled shoes, began to run in the direction of the crowds.

Two minutes later, a 757 jet hit the first floor of the command center. Haley estimated she was about two hundred feet away. From a window, the plane’s tail was fully visible to her. She saw the American Airlines logo. It looked at first as though it was going to try to land. Haley would report later that no landing gear was visible to her. She watched, horrified, as it headed directly towards the center. Its impact decimated the support columns of the building. She was so close that she could see the plane’s logo, the eagle burning fire red. Her eyes stung with dust, jet fuel and burning rubber. The cloying odor of both fear and death filled her lungs and made her heart race. The plane, she understood later, exploded, with fireballs of jet fuel spreading into the hallways of the Command Center’s E and D rings. Flames erupted everywhere, followed almost immediately by the sounds of sirens. Two of Fairfax County’s specially trained Urban Search and Rescue Units were on their way with teams of emergency personnel following right behind them. Together they converged on the rubble of what had minutes earlier been an operations center in the nucleus of the nation’s defense.

As two ten-person squads began their search for survivors, firefighters battled flames and medics treated the wounded. Haley Agar watched in silence from a safe vantage point on a hill, along with some evacuated service personnel. Above them rescue helicopters whirred loudly as they surveyed the damage. It was unreal. Like a Hollywood movie. This could not be happening! Not here in America, she thought in panic. Not the Pentagon. Jesus Christ, not the Pentagon! That’s where everything is!

The military personnel next to her were talking about New York being hit as well. The World Trade Center was on fire. A terrorist attack! Haley had a nagging suspicion and could not help wondering if this had all been somehow anticipated. Everyone was too prepared. Then again, she thought, this was the Pentagon. They should be prepared. That’s what they do.

She reached in her pocket for her cell phone and called home once again. Mace, it’s me. I’m ok. This place is a mess, there’s no way I can get home anytime soon. The Feds will close down everything and I’ll never get out of Arlington. I’ll try to get back to my car and check into the nearest hotel. She laughed wryly, It’s not like this place is going to be a tourist attraction for a bit, right? Promising to call again within the hour she hung up and along with hundreds of people sharing same desire for safety, ran hurriedly away from the debris.

CHAPTER FIVE

When the phone rang two hours later Emily Cowan deliberately let her son take the call.

Some long trusted voice in her head told her who it was. She knew why he was calling and she knew it would be hard to resist saying I told you so. There was now absolutely no doubt in her mind that The Man In The Shadow had just struck the ultimate blow. This time there was no denying it.

Emily, my dear, an old Etonian voice said blandly, I think we need to have a little chat. By some strange coincidence, I’m in your neck of the woods…let’s say noon shall we? ‘The Courtyard Tea Room’ in Centreville…I’m sure you remember how to get there." And Sir Anthony Wallace-Terry, formerly of MI6 and diplomat extraordinaire cleared the line and, summoning his assistant Barbara Palmer, requested her to contact Eldon Davidson at the Israeli Embassy, as well as Jack Simmons at NSA.

Maryland’s Route 50 is at best an overcrowded, badly maintained highway. Its minimum speed in some segments is 65 mph which when translated into commuter speak becomes 85 to 90 mph, depending on what is behind you or whether the state police are down in their quota of speeding tickets. Given being rear-ended by a large truck as an alternative, Emily felt she had no choice but to maintain an even 85 mph after she crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. She left her radio on and listened terrified as the updates continued. She headed east, then north toward the quaint little town of Centreville, a place she had always felt time had somehow forgotten. Centreville was for her, a sort of cross between the sixties TV Mayberry and the eternal Transylvania.

Centreville, Maryland is home to the rest and relaxation compound of the Russian Embassy, which is set on some eighty acres of wooded countryside and surrounded by the small town. The choice piece of real estate clearly marked No Admittance in three languages is absurdly close to several non-working horse farms and surrounded by residential country estates. Those with enquiring minds knew that the adjacent estates were all appropriately leased to various intelligence agencies, as well as allied embassies. During the Cold War the area also hosted several government safe houses. Today, retired high ranking military and aging spies now into real estate occupied much of the territory. Crime was low, housing prices were just beginning to rise like everywhere else on Maryland’s Eastern Shore and designer retail outlets and antique shops attracted the public as they traveled to and from Ocean City. It was indeed the perfect meeting place for the great game of espionage, as it had been for four decades. Centreville espoused all the prerequisites of a modern spy thriller; subterfuge, intelligence gathering and the blessed omnipresence of them, watching us, watching them!

When Mason was a teenager, to prove her point on the surveillance business on the Eastern Shore, Emily had set up a picnic close to the Russian compound. Of course, very few people outside of the intelligence community and the hard-core locals knew it was literally Russian soil. Feigning ignorance and ignoring the multilingual signs, this being America after all, Emily and her son set out their checkered cloth, baskets of southern fried chicken, fine cheeses and salad and began their count down to see how long it would take before officials asked them to move. They managed two cups of good British Ribena Blackberry Cordial (with blackberries actually grown at the Queen’s other home at Sandringham) and a piece of chicken each before the compound guards put in appearance and in halted English asked them to move along. They responded by saying this was America, and they could eat where they liked. The guards pointed to the sign. Black helicopters had begun to circle above. Fearing an international incident, Emily and her son conceded defeat, packed their baskets and left. They laughed all the way home. The object had been attained. Never, she warned her son, think you are a totally free person, in this country or any other.

Emily considered the beauty of the surrounding area as she drove, then became aware of what looked like an unmarked police car following behind her. She checked her speedometer. She was not speeding excessively and given the age of her car probably couldn’t speed too much anyway, but she slowed down just in case. He did not attempt to pass. She continued thinking of the strategic importance of the area she was in.

Of greater espionage value than the compound was Centreville’s close proximity to the Wye Research and Education Center, whose grounds incorporated the Aspen Institute, the site of the United States Institute for Peace. It was here that the Wye River Memorandum – Palestinian Israeli Interim Agreement on the West Bank had been facilitated and, albeit briefly, implemented.

When the Aspen Institute, whose headquarters are in Washington, D.C. has a need for an out of the way venue for a conference, they use this center situated three miles south of Route 50. The institute lies a little beyond the Methodist Church on Carmichael Road. This is where the action is, Emily thought aloud, all the big decisions are made here, not in bloody Camp David. It’s here, right here in my own backyard.

Emily followed Centreville Road towards the Town Center, confirming that the dark colored Crown Victoria was indeed still following her. Forgotten training had kicked in just minutes earlier, forcing her into the McDonald’s Drive-in on Route 50 for an orange juice just to test her theory.

The driver waited, reaffirmed his position when she returned to the highway and remained close behind, almost tempting her to identify him openly. Smiling into her rear view mirror, she pulled into the parking lot. Seeing him arrive directly behind her, she smiled broadly and saluted him in Benny Hill fashion after she locked her car. She crossed the street and entered the café. What a fucking joke, she thought to herself.

The situation reminded her of a time when she herself was spotted during a surveillance. Her quarry had entered a Ladies’ Room. She had of course followed right behind. Then the woman, realizing Emily’s lack of experience actually repeated the procedure five minutes later. Emily saw no choice but to remain with her. On using the toilet, the woman came out, washed her hands, carefully dried them, spun around, stared at Emily, smiled, bowed her head and said, Checkmate, game over, and left, quickly vanishing from sight before Emily could regain her composure.

Throughout this latest procedure, Emily was conscious of the bulging awkwardness caused by the shoulder holster containing an old 9mm pistol and hoped it wasn’t too noticeable. Maryland, unfortunately, was not a right to carry state. If attacked she knew what to do. The words, If you take it out, shoot to kill not to injure, rang in her ears. There would be no choice. Sir Anthony Wallace-Terry would clean up the mess. That’s what they did these days. CIA, NSA, MI6 were, after all, the clean up men.

Sir Anthony rose from his seat against the wall as she approached the table, kissing her lightly on the cheek and grasping her hands affectionately. My dear, the years have been good to you, he said.

No bloody thanks to you, she replied tersely. Oh by the way, thanks for the escort!

Just making sure you got here safely my dear. Let’s order first, shall we? Wine or something stronger?

Scotch please. Glen Livet, if you have it, no ice and a glass of ice water if you don’t mind, replied Emily, looking around at a roomful of people, who all showed visible signs of stress as they discussed the morning’s events.

The usual for me, Shelley my dear, and some oysters on the half to start.

The young redheaded waitress offered the specials of the day and Emily selected lobster tail stuffed with Crab Imperial. Sir Anthony selected his favorite Chesapeake Crab Cakes. When she returned with their drinks, accompanied by salads and loaves of freshly baked rye bread dripping with honey butter, the server found the pair engrossed in an unusual conversation. For Shelley, the fact that they spoke in English was in itself unusual. ‘The Courtyard Café’ had an international clientele all year round. The Russian ambassadorial staff lunched there as often as they could get away. Visitors tiring of the hotel food at the conference center on the Wye River frequently came over for lunch. Their conversation was usually in a foreign language as well.

The Café had in fact catered the Peace Conference several years ago. Emily often wondered if the wait staff needed security clearances to wait on the tables. The Café’s entire demeanor was chic and continental. From the green and white checkered cloths on the tables to the large white cups and oversized plates, the look was more the Parisian Bistro than the usual crab houses of Maryland’s Eastern Shore. But today, Shelley would note in her modest report to Israeli intelligence, everyone looked swollen-eyed and in despair, frozen in time as well as space and numbed by the events of the morning.

When the third party arrived, Shelley noticed first shock and then consternation on the face of the woman she had just served. The latecomer, who had arrived in a black Mercedes sports car had parked right in front of the window. He glided in, almost walking on air. Shaking hands with the older man he turned to the woman and called her Mina, gently kissing both sides of her face. Emily, unseen by the others, brushed away a stray tear.

When Shelley returned to the table to take his order and to deliver the oysters, she realized that the conversation was now in Arabic. She remembered the nasal sounds of the language from customers during the peace talks. The pretty young waitress, whose education was financed by her informal reporting skills to Israel’s Mossad had made a friend of one of the translators. He was Palestinian. She’d picked up a couple of extra words in his guttural Gaza dialect but this wasn’t so harsh. This language was beautiful and delicate sounding. Wealthy Arabic, she thought to herself.

The stranger switched to English as she approached. He was a good looking man in his fifties, maybe older. He was tall, slim, and expensively dressed. The stranger’s hair was white, as was his moustache. He looked for all the world like the guy in that old movie about the Russian doctor. What was it now? She tried to recall. That was it, her mom’s favorite, ‘Dr. Zhivago’. The man looked liked Omar Sharif.

‘Zhivago’ ordered Caesar salad with chicken and some ice water and their conversation stopped until she moved from the table. How weird, Shelly thought to herself. This is like a movie. A well-fed Catherine Deneuve meets Omar Sharif. He seems very edgy despite his suave approach. Shelly noticed the muscle in his jaw twitching, and the woman looked like a lioness scoping out her prey.

Well, Yassir! Or is Tony more appropriate here in the States? It has been a long time. What is it now, twenty-five or twenty-six years? What are you doing here? Emily asked as she sipped her scotch defiantly, knowing how the stranger disapproved of alcohol, particularly being drunk by a woman. Unless, of course, it was good champagne.

You’re looking wonderful.

Don’t patronize me, Tony, and do get to the point. This isn’t a social visit. I know you, remember?

"As you wish, Mina. We need your assistance. My government has authorized me to ask you to form a committee of people with interests similar to your own and help us find out everything we need to know about our tall, skinny friend and all of his close associates

You will work with the full knowledge of the White House as well as that of Her Majesty’s Government, interjected Sir Anthony Wallace-Terry. Your old friends from Langley and Mossad will assist.

This is about this morning, I take it? she inquired. You’re looking for HIM? Has al-Qaeda claimed responsibility for the attacks?

Not exactly, Mina my dear. He’s in hiding somewhere in Afghanistan. We are more interested in assessing the activities of his followers worldwide. In short, stopping the cash flow may indeed curtail any further attacks, which is why we need your help, replied Yassir Shallal, Special Advisor on Middle East Affairs to the President as well as close personal friend of the British Prime Minister and the unofficial go-between of both and the Saudi Government.

You see, he’s a sick man. He’s frail. There was an assassination attempt on his life last year. One of ours, of course. But Mina, we have it on good authority that his staunchest advisors and closest friends include none other than your ex-husband, Ghulam Ansari, and there’s another interesting little twist. His little pal Mustafa, you remember him, I’m sure, is on the opposite side of the Afghan fence. On our side, would you believe?

CHAPTER SIX

She understood their request. Conduct a full scale unofficial investigation on the assets of al-Qaeda in this and other countries. Who does bin-Laden deal with? Who launders the money? Where is it deposited? Assess the possibility of full-scale terrorist attacks. Most importantly, Shallal had said, we want to get to his inner circle! Emily then asked if this was an unofficial termination project.

Absolutely not! Wallace-Terry interjected, bin Laden is too valuable alive. It behooves us to tell the world we are outraged, declare war on terrorism, and watch the bugger gain confidence. If he is killed he becomes even more dangerous as a martyr.

Meanwhile at Camp David or Air Force One or wherever the President is, we’re ready to do what? Emily inquired.

Blow hot air up bin Laden’s arse, came the response.

I’m sorry gentlemen, I don’t know what you want from me!

Yassir Shallal took over. Mina, thirty years ago, you had contacts, even friends with some of the most wanted terrorists in the world. Many of them are still alive, fresh out of jail, some even respectable. Others are even more interesting to us. Do what you do best. Talk to them. Find out what going on outside the circle. Get their opinions. Ultimately we’ll find someone to penetrate inside the circle when the time is right.

We need old fashioned low-tech intelligence from people who know the environment. We know you still work in that neck of the woods. We follow your progress, old girl, interjected Wallace-Terry. All that ‘International Women protect their sisters in Afghanistan’ malarkey. Do you think it goes unnoticed on either side? Al-Qaeda has cells here too, you know.

Al-Qaeda has never been thought of as a conventional enemy in real terms, Emily’s voice was rising. I’ve been saying this for years. This man is thought of as a God. He lives in caves, for Christ’s sake, somewhere on a mountain range in Afghanistan surrounded by militant jackasses who hate women. They still go to war on horseback there. She downed her scotch in one gulp. This is about tribal fealty. It isn’t conventional. You’re not listening! To the average family in Pakistan or Afghanistan, he’s the redeemer. He doesn’t give orders, he just plants seeds of revolution. I can’t go there and yodel a message for fuck’s sake. This isn’t the Swiss Alps!

Quiet down Amina, said Yassir Shallal, becoming somewhat embarrassed as heads began to turn.

It’s not Amina anymore, Shallal, as you very well know. My name is Emily Cowan.

And to me, you will always be Amina Desai. In case you have forgotten, that is how you started out.

Started out? Tony Shallal, I am fully cognizant of how I started out. I am also aware that you dropped me into a barrel of shit each time I did anything for any of you. In case you have forgotten, that’s why I came here and for your information, I live with the consequences of my actions every single day, which is more than you do! Are we clear on that point Mr. James fucking Bond? she concluded, picking up the check as she left.

PART TWO

CHAPTER SEVEN

It is said that some twelve hundred years before the birth of Jesus, the Hebrews settled in Palestine. Historical evidence shows that from 70 A.D. when the Second Temple was destroyed, the Jewish Diaspora continued until about 700 A.D.. Palestine as we know it was under the control and jurisdiction of the Roman Empire. After the fall of the Roman Empire, the Ismaelites settled the area and remained until 1516 when the Ottoman Turks gained control of the region and subjugated the Arab population.

By the 1880s, the Ottoman Empire was in chaos. Its long-standing control waned as territories bordering Persia were subjected to attacks from nationalistic, tribal and familial factions. Waiting in the wings were Britain, France, Germany and Russia, each ready to intervene with military force in order to gain control over the spoils of the declining Ottoman Empire.

For twenty years, beginning in 1896, as social unrest struck Eastern Europe, thousands of Jews left their European and Russian communities, fueled by a longing for what they saw as their ancestral homeland. In this social turmoil the political movement of Zionism was born. The first Zionist Congress convened in Switzerland in 1897. Some Zionists favored an immediate return to Palestine. Others, weary of the never-ending Diaspora wished to settle in Argentina and England. Many European Jews found their way to America. However, the desire for a Jewish homeland remained strong. And so it was that the saying, To Next Year in Jerusalem, became a symbol of hope.

By the end of 1906, Palestine was declared to be the ancestral home of the Jewish people. Unfortunately, the Arabs who had lived there since 700 A.D were not given the opportunity to object to that declaration as increasing numbers of European Jews immigrated to the region. Objecting would have been forbidden by their Islamic faith, as up until this time Arab and Jew, recognizing the commonality of all nomadic peoples shared the bread or manna of life and lived in peace.

With the outbreak of World War I in 1914, Palestine became the ultimate bargaining chip and the history of the region was forever changed. When the Turks aligned themselves to Germany in World War I, it was in the best interests of both Britain and France to turn the tide against them by encouraging Arab hostilities. They offered to support self-government as a reward. At the same time, European armies engaged in what history would refer to as The Great War. British and French governments unofficially waged